


Mama, I Hate To See You Cry

by Amuly



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Bottom Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Canon Compliant, Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Catholic Character, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, Drug Use, Established Relationship, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Mother-Son Relationship, Muslim Character, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, The drug use is just Joe smoking hash in the present day, Top Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Uncircumcised Penis, but that's not a fully explicit scene so i'm not gonna clutter the tags with it, mothers, then very briefly top joe and bottom nicky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29170236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amuly/pseuds/Amuly
Summary: A few years after their first deaths, Nicolo realizes that if they want to see their families again, he and Yusuf will have to visit soon--if they wait much longer, their lack of aging will become impossible to hide. Yusuf agrees, but he wants to tell his mother about their new gifts, whereas Nicolo decides to keep them secret from his own mother.A thousand years later, Nile grapples with the same question: should she tell her mother about her immortality? Nicky and Joe both have different answers based on their own experiences, but the only one who can make that decision is Nile herself.Or, a tale as old as time, a story of mothers and their children.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 46
Kudos: 242





	Mama, I Hate To See You Cry

Nicolo’s eyes were cast up at the ceiling of their shared room, imagining tracing the wooden crossbeams and straw thatching that he could not see in the darkness but knew were there. Beside him Yusuf snored fitfully against his side, one arm thrown over Nicolo’s chest. He was irritable because Nicolo was not sleeping—trying to pull him closer in his restlessness, to place Nicolo where he belonged, tucked up against his chest. But Nicolo could not turn and sleep tonight.

Many moments later—one hour and one half, according to Nicolo’s unnaturally accurate internal clock—Yusuf awoke with a gasp, clutching at nothing, leg flinging out and kicking Nicolo in the calf. Nicolo soothed him, rubbing his hand along Yusuf’s arm, whispering nonsense in the darkness even as he continued to stare straight up at the ceiling.

“Sorry,” Yusuf mumbled in Genovese.

“It’s alright,” Nicolo replied back in the same. Yusuf groaned and rolled around for a moment, rubbing at his face, at Nicolo’s body. He was not a good waker, Nicolo’s Yusuf. Sometimes, Nicolo would think this fondly. Tonight it was a mere fact, any fondness buried beneath the swirl of Nicolo’s anxious thoughts.

Mumbling apologies still, Yusuf eventually hauled himself over Nicolo and out of the bed, yanking his _jellabah_ over his head as he stumbled out of their room. Nicolo waited, ticking off the minutes in his head. After three he sighed and sat up, swinging his naked legs over the edge of their bed, debating with himself if he should just get up and be done with it or lie here with Yusuf for hours and hope sleep eventually claimed him.

By the time Yusuf returned Nicolo had risen and lit a candle and sat it on the floor with him as he rummaged through their packs. Yusuf crossed the room and pressed a hand to Nicolo’s head, running his finger through the tangled golden locks.

“Here. Some water.”

Nicolo took the mug from Yusuf and sipped at it with one hand as he continued to scour through their bags with the other. Yusuf, for his part, bent to place a kiss to Nicolo’s head and then went to sit back on their bed.

“I saw the women again,” Yusuf said. Nicolo buried his head in Yusuf’s pack.

After a moment Yusuf continued: “In the Orient, still. Judging by their clothes, the flowers.”

Ah, there it was. The scroll Nicolo had been looking for. He tugged it free from Yusuf’s pack and sat back on his haunches, looking at Yusuf from across the room. It was mere feet between them—Nicolo on the floor, Yusuf on the bed—but it felt like a chasm. Nicolo clutched the scroll to his chest and watched the shadows play over Yusuf’s face in the flickering candlelight. Yusuf was regarding him serenely, knowing his mood was ill, this dark night.

Eventually Yusuf nodded at the scroll in Nicolo’s hands.

“Is that the one from my mother?”

Nicolo nodded. Yusuf sighed and leaned forward, forearms on his thighs.

“What is it, _habibata_?”

“Will we grow older?” The question spilled from Nicolo’s mouth like bile he could no longer keep down. He breathed heavily after it was said, like he had just purged.

Yusuf wiped at his mouth, smoothed down his beard. After a moment he held his hands out, palms up, fingers splayed.

“I do not know any more than you do.”

“I think maybe not,” Nicolo admitted, fear twisting in his gut. “It has been seven years, and you and I…”

Yusuf shrugged. “I cannot say. When we met you were a filthy little Frank, with your matted beard and hair. You are much more handsome since you have let me bathe you and trim your beard.”

Nicolo frowned at Yusuf, not in the mood for good humor.

“You look the same,” he told Yusuf. Crawling forward, still clutching the scroll from Yusuf’s mother, he touched one hand to the corner of Yusuf’s eyes. “Your eyes. They haven’t aged. No new lines. No grey hairs.” He touched further up, at Yusuf’s forehead. “Your hairline hasn’t moved any further back-”

“ _Hey_ ,” Yusuf whined, removing Nicolo’s hand from his forehead. “Any ‘ _further-?_ ’”

“Yusuf,” Nicolo pleaded. Yusuf sighed, pulling Nicolo’s captured hand to his mouth so he could press kisses to the knuckles: all fourteen of them.

“Nicolo, hayati. What if we do not? What is there we can do but continue on? Earn some money, find our way to the east… The women may have the answer, they may know if we will age, if there is a date this ends, what shape our lives may take…”

“Unless they know as much as we,” Nicolo pointed out. It was one of his fears, the type he only spoke in the dark of night. “Unless they died the same time we did, as we did, a world away. And now we four lost souls are in search of each other, thinking our opposites hold the answers. Only for us to meet and find nothing but two other monsters, exiled from heaven.”

“I won’t hear you speak of yourself this way,” Yusuf snapped. “You are my Nicolo. You are _not_ forsaken from Allah’s grace. You are the most beautiful soul, my prince of kindness. If you do not believe in yourself then believe in me, and know that I love a man kissed by Allah, that I bask in his saintly glow.”

It was impossible to hear Yusuf’s words and not feel the passion that emanated from his very being. Oh, Nicolo tried to remain unmoved, but even as he demurely cast his eyes to the side, he could feel Yusuf’s heart reaching across the space between them, his words forming a bridge in the ether, until it wrapped tight to Nicolo’s own cold, bitter heart, lending it its warmth. Nicolo smiled softly.

“‘ _Saintly_?’” he teased.

Yusuf grinned in triumph and kissed Nicolo’s knuckles again, turned his palm over to press a kiss to the center.

“I knew I had to speak your language, you misguided heathen,” Yusuf admonished. As he spoke he pressed another kiss to the heel of Nicolo’s hand, to his wrist, to his arm. Nicolo sighed as Yusuf crawled into his lap, kissing his way along Nicolo’s shoulders, his neck, his jaw.

“People will notice,” Nicolo explained. “If we don’t grow older.”

“Then we will move,” Yusuf reassured him, lips buried against his neck.

Nicolo would have to say it. Whisper the words in the dark between them, speak them out loud.

“Our families. They will notice.”

Yusuf’s mouth fell open, like he was going to reply, but no sound escaped. Pulling back, his expression crumpled, faced with the enormity of their dilemma.

“Another few years-” Nicolo explained.

“We can tell them,” Yusuf cut him off.

Nicolo shook his head and pulled away. Walked the length of their small rented room, then walked back. Sat beside Yusuf on their straw mattress, bare thighs pressed against one another. Yusuf’s hand came out to cover Nicolo’s thigh, to rub it in reassurance. But there was no reassuring to be done.

“I will not tell my mother,” Nicolo said, even as it broke his heart. Tears fell onto his bare thighs. “I will not burden her with the knowledge that her son is forever cleaved from God’s grace. That we will not meet again in the kingdom of heaven.”

Yusuf’s breath stuttered, and Nicolo knew he had not thought about this. Or at least, at no great length, the way Nicolo had. Yusuf, his Yusuf, he could only ever see the good in what they were: the people they could help, the lands they could travel to, the books and foods, art and languages they could partake in. But Nicolo… blame it on his Roman pragmatism, paranoia, whatever it might be: it was _all_ he could think of. How, if they could not die, they could not join God in His kingdom. How his mother would fear for him, if she ever knew.

“This is a gift,” Yusuf told him. Told both of them.

“It is a responsibility,” Nicolo countered.

Yusuf hesitated. After a moment he removed his hand from Nicolo’s thigh, tucking it into his own lap.

“I did not realize you found this so burdensome.”

Nicolo sighed and turned to Yusuf, hands caressing over his shoulders, his neck, until Yusuf would meet his eyes in the dark.

“An unending lifetime with you is recompense for a thousand responsibilities, for the burden of the world.” Nicolo nudged at him. “I cannot help but fear what burdens God has awaiting me if you are my reward.”

Yusuf snorted. “Spoken like a true Christian,” he chided. “I will tell my mother,” Yusuf told him, confidently. He squeezed Nicolo’s hand, and Nicolo pretended that he couldn’t feel the tremor beneath his skin. “She will see that Allah has blessed us: with our long life, with each other. She will rejoice.”

Nicolo nodded and said nothing to contradict him. After all, Nicolo did not know Yusuf’s mother. He didn’t know Yusuf’s culture, aside from what he had learned by Yusuf’s side, from Yusuf himself. And Nicolo did not know how much was the unique man he loved or part of Maghrebi generally.

“If that is the case,” Nicolo spoke slowly, feeling selfish even as it seemed the logical way forward: “We should see my mother first. Before…” He glanced over at Yusuf’s eyes. At the fine lines around them that hadn’t changed since the day they’d met.

Yusuf’s mouth fell open—they were closer to Yusuf’s home now, living in Mecca. They would practically have to pass it, depending on where they decided to pick up a ship and travel across the Mediterranean to Genova. But time was against them, if Nicolo wanted to see his mother before it was too late to excuse his youthful appearance. And if Yusuf’s mother accepted them as he was so certain she would, surely she would want to keep them around a while, to visit with her well-heeled son and his traveling companion. It was only natural.

“Of course,” Yusuf finally agreed. Then he smiled crooked, tilting his head. “So I am to see where young Nicolo di Genova became a man.”

Nicolo snorted. “You are to see where Nicolo di Genova was a _child_ ,” he corrected. Tilting his own head in imitation of Yusuf’s, Nicolo leaned in. “You know full well where I became a ‘man,’ Yusuf: you were there.”

Yusuf hummed, getting the gist and playing along with Nicolo’s change in mood. “Hmm. I can’t seem to recall. Do you think there’s a way to jog my memory?”

* * *

The unique pines that Nicolo so closely associated with his home adorned the roadside leading up to his parents’ estate. Looking like overgrown mushrooms, the skinny trunks gave way to a burst of evergreen foliage high above their heads. Noticing Yusuf’s curiosity, Nicolo hopped from his horse and walked alongside for a ways, eyes trained on the side of the path. Grabbing a couple pinecones from beside the road, he swung himself back into the saddle and set to work prying the scales apart and forcing out their hidden treasure. After a few minutes he had collected a worthy bounty and held out one gloved hand to Yusuf. There, a bouquet of pine nuts rested. Yusuf picked out a few and popped them into his mouth, chewing contemplatively.

“They are better roasted,” Nicolo apologized. He smiled when Yusuf hummed and reached out for seconds. “Or baked in _mia mama’s_ pesto sauce, on spaghetti with-” he trailed off when he saw Yusuf watching him, eyes twinkling. Nicolo shrugged. “You will taste it for yourself soon enough.”

“I cannot wait,” Yusuf reassured him.

Nicolo’s mother, Duchess Adelina di Genova, stood waiting for them at the entrance to her sprawling countryside villa, her retinue of servants by her sides. As soon as they reached the top of the road Nicolo swung off his horse and ran for his mother, her arms outstretched. She wrapped him in a bear-hug, crying “Ah, my beautiful son! Home at long last!” as she squeezed him tight.

“Mama,” Nicolo breathed, eyes squeezed shut. She smelled like the sunshine of his home, of the fruit trees in their garden and olive oil from their mill.

“And this is your friend! Show me, show me,” Mama ordered. She held Nicolo by the arm and collected her skirts to stroll over to where Yusuf was passing their horses off to a servant. Yusuf turned to Mama and removed his hat, bowing low and making just as perfectly charming a first impression as anybody ever could. Nicolo fought to hide a smile at his performance—which was no performance, truly: it was just Yusuf.

“Duchessa Adelina di Genova, I am Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani, called al-Tayyib.”

“Well met, exotic traveler,” Mama greeted him. “Genova is blessed to have you in her fair lands. Our riches are your riches, and we hope to share them with you as long as you stay.” She curtsied artfully, because Mama was nothing if not an expert hostess. Then she stepped forward and kissed both Yusuf’s cheeks, smiling up at him. Yusuf grinned and took her hand, kissing the back of it, and delighting at her giggle.

“Ah, but which of those do I call you?” Mama asked. “I’m not familiar with your traditions. Are you al-Tayyib? Yusuf ibn Ibrahim?”

“Just Yusuf,” he reassured her. “It is what your son calls me, and I would ask his mother stand on no more formality than he does.”

“Ah, and you must call me Adelina, then! Come: are you hungry? Thirsty? Nicolo, we had a wonderful season a few years ago: I’ll have the servants bring up that year’s wine. It is sweet just how you like it. You must be hungry: you look starved. Let me get you refreshments.” Imperiously Mama snapped at her servants, ordering them around with a flick of her wrist. Two were taking Nicolo and Yusuf’s horses for water and hay; another four were carrying their bags into the villa; now two broke off and rushed towards the kitchens. Nicolo held his hands up to his mother.

“Mama, Mama: please. Yusuf and I just need some rest before supper. Where…?”

“Your room is all turned down, Nicolo,” Mama told him. She turned to Yusuf. “We have a room prepared for you as well, Yusuf. I’ll send-”

“Oh, please: let’s not worry about that now,” Yusuf cut her off, glancing at Nicolo with a smirk. Nicolo resisted rolling his eyes. Subtle, his partner in life and love was not. “Nicolo and I will freshen up together. Who better to show me around, after all?”

Mama shrugged, unperturbed. “Of course, don’t let me crowd you boys. Nicolo: his room is Maria’s old room-”

“Why not Davide’s?” Nicolo suggested quickly. His sisters’ rooms had been on the other side of the villa from him and his brothers’ rooms. Davide’s was just next door to his, and his older (though not eldest) brother was married and living on an estate a few miles away, so his room should be empty.

Mama shrugged with no care at all. “Of course, it is no problem. His things will be in Davide’s room. Give it a couple hours, yes? We will put clean bed things and get the bad air out.”

“Thank you, Mama.” Nicolo kissed both her cheeks, clasped her hands. “I will see you in a few hours? Once we wash off all this dust from the road.”

“ _Mio bambino_ , of course.” She hugged him tight again. “It is so good to have you home.”

Nicolo pressed his face to her hair and breathed deep, eyes closed. “It is good to be home, Mama.”

* * *

“This was your room?” Yusuf entered the bedroom with a grin, spinning in place to take it in. Nicolo sighed as he set down his pack against one wall.

“ _Sì,_ ” Nicolo replied. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked around the room, trying to see it through Yusuf’s eyes. It was not small: he had a writing desk in one corner by a window overlooking the back garden; his bed was big and almost decadent, saved only by the fact that it was the bed for a boy and not a man. A large wardrobe was fitted against one wall, a vanity alongside it for Nicolo’s morning ablutions. Nicolo raised an eyebrow at Yusuf as he walked around, looking at each piece. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Yusuf replied. But he couldn’t suppress the smile on his lips, which turned into a full-blown grin as he picked up a delicate silver mirror from Nicolo’s vanity. He turned it to face Nicolo. “You were a little prince.”

Nicolo scoffed. “The third son of a country lord does not a prince make.”

Yusuf set the mirror down again as he strolled towards Nicolo, amusement too grand. “All these years, and I thought I was culturing a feral woodland Frank, treating him to the finer delights of life which he had never seen the like. And here, this whole time, you were raised with a silver spoon and a villa full of servants!”

Nicolo frowned. “The spoons have been in my family for generations.”

Yusuf crowed and embraced Nicolo, spinning him around as he laughed between kisses.

“Oh, my little prince. I am so happy you have brought me here.”

Nicolo growled and pushed Yusuf off him, but the heat was one born of passion, not anger. Yusuf, sensing this, let himself be corralled towards Nicolo’s little prince’s bed.

 _Not_ a prince’s bed, Nicolo thought to himself. A fine bed, for the third son of a wealthy family. But nothing more than that.

Still, it certainly was fine enough to support both their weight as Nicolo shoved Yusuf onto the soft mattress and climbed on top (his mother must have had the servants change out fresh straw into the mattress when she received word they were coming. It smelled fresh, like a clean stable and a sunny summer day). Nicolo brutalized Yusuf’s mouth, to Yusuf’s great pleasure. He moaned beneath Nicolo, hands tangling in his hair as he let Nicolo lick and nip at his lips.

They made quick work of each other’s clothes, dusty from the road and in need of changing before dinner anyway. Yusuf moved backwards up the bed to lie, naked, against the pillows. His eyes were dark and chest heaving as he watched Nicolo crawl up his body.

“ _Nicolo_ ,” Yusuf whispered, lips shiny with spit, cock hard and jutting up towards Nicolo, like it was reaching out towards him for attention. Slowly Nicolo lowered his body against Yusuf’s, both men groaning and eyes fluttering shut as their hips met.

“Are you going to take me in your father’s house?” Yusuf whispered. It was meant as a tease, but his voice was rough with arousal, his hand clinging to Nicolo’s back as they ground against each other.

“Would you like me to?” Nicolo asked, pointlessly. He pulled back to look at Yusuf, to brush the hair from his beautiful face. Nicolo grinned crookedly. “Bedding an infidel I captured and brought home with me from Jerusalem. What would my Pope say of this?”

“‘Well done?’” Yusuf ventured. He grinned. “Perhaps if you sent him an image of this infidel. Then he would understand.”

Nicolo pouted as he kissed Yusuf’s lips again, Yusuf immediately kissing him back, sucking at his lips, tongues sliding against each other. Without another word needing to pass between them Yusuf turned over, presenting himself to Nicolo: forearms pressed to the bedsheets, ass ripe and for the taking, thighs strong, muscled, covered in soft black hair. Nicolo rutted against him, pressing his aching erection against Yusuf’s backside with no finesse, the two men just rubbing their skin together aimlessly.

“I should have had a servant…” Nicolo muttered, trailed off. He pressed an apologetic kiss to Yusuf’s back as he rose from the bed. Yusuf whined and glanced over his shoulder to watch Yusuf rummage around his room.

“Had a servant, what:” Yusuf asked, “bring you oil for bedding the Moor you brought home?”

Ah-ha! Nicolo held up a jar, triumphant. He returned to his bed, crawling along until he could splay himself along Yusuf’s back once more. Their bodies rocked together as Nicolo chuckled into his ear: “They would follow my order without question. As you say, I am a little prince.”

Carefully Nicolo opened the lid of the jar and poured it out over his hands. After setting the jar aside he rubbed his hands together, warming up the lamp oil. Yusuf’s sighs filled the room as Nicolo pressed his hands between Yusuf’s thighs, coating them with the slick oil. He reached a hand back to tug at Nicolo’s hip, urging him forward.

“Take me, _habibata_ , please.”

“I have you,” Nicolo promised as he covered Yusuf with his body. Using one hand to guide himself between Yusuf’s thighs, Nicolo reached the other around to rub the leftover oil on Yusuf’s erection, pulling him in time with his thrusts. Yusuf groaned, head hanging down between his arms as Nicolo began to have his way with him in earnest.

“My love, yes,” Yusuf gasped. “Your hands, your-” Nicolo thrust against him harder, causing the words to catch in Yusuf’s throat. He moaned and batted weakly at the bedsheets. “Your strength, Nicolo. My body is yours.”

A sight less florid than his usual declarations, though no less heartfelt for it. Nicolo grinned and bent his head, putting his back into fucking Yusuf until he was insensate.

It didn’t take long. They were both tired, and in love, and Nicolo himself was feeling more than erotic, bedding his lover in his childhood bed. Soon enough Yusuf spilled over Nicolo’s hand. Nicolo managed to catch most of it, smearing it along Yusuf’s member as he stroked him through his orgasm. Yusuf grunted as Nicolo continued to fuck his thighs, jarring him with every thrust.

“Go on, Nicolo,” Yusuf encouraged him. “Spend yourself on me.”

Nicolo gritted his teeth as he fucked Yusuf hard, hips jarring faster and faster, balls slapping against Yusuf’s ass. Until, finally, his pleasure crested, and Nicolo moaned and curled himself over Yusuf’s back, hips juddering as his member painted Yusuf’s thighs.

“Don’t, don’t,” Nicolo cautioned Yusuf, urging him to stay propped up on his hands and knees. Yusuf groaned.

“ _Nicolo_ -”

“Seconds, _mio cuore_ ,” Nicolo promised him as he dashed over to his washing bowl, grabbing a washcloth and wetting it. Carefully he cleaned Yusuf’s thighs and soft penis before pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder and letting him sink to the bedsheets. Nicolo washed his own hands in the bowl and wiped off his member before padding back across his room and joining his love on top of his bedsheets. He kissed Yusuf again: on the shoulder, on his jaw, until Yusuf tilted his face to Nicolo and their lips met once more.

“I did not want to leave a mess for the servants before bed,” Nicolo explained. “They would have to change the sheets if they found it stained with our lovemaking this evening.”

“A considerate little lord,” Yusuf teased. His hands caressed over Nicolo’s back, his hip. Stroked gently at his flaccid penis: with no intent, but just because he could, and liked to. Nicolo smiled and butted his forehead against Yusuf’s. With that, Yusuf yawned widely, jaw cracking. Nicolo pushed at him.

“We have time for a nap before dinner,” he assured Yusuf. He needn’t of: Yusuf was already rolling over and pushing himself back against Nicolo’s chest, head snuffling against a pillow. Nicolo smiled and brushed Yusuf’s thick, curly hair aside so he could press a kiss to his neck. From the sound of his breathing, Yusuf was asleep before the minute was out.

* * *

To Nicolo’s horror, Yusuf was gone when he awoke a few hours later. The light through his bedroom window was slanted, shadows long: the hour was later than he’d meant, but after so much time traveling across sea and land, and this afternoon’s lovemaking, he must have been more tired than he realized.

But _Yusuf_ , apparently, had not been.

There was no telling what trouble Yusuf was getting into without him. Quick as he could Nicolo dug a fresh set of clothing out of his pack and hurried out of his room, barefooted and still lacing up his breeches.

He hadn’t even thought where to begin to look, but he didn’t need to. As soon as he turned towards the main hall he could hear Yusuf’s warm laughter echoing through the villa. Unfortunately, he could hear his _mother’s_ laughter following soon after.

Oh no.

They were in the courtyard together, of course, lazing on two benches alongside each other and enjoying a pre-dinner drink and fruits. Well, his mother was enjoying the drink: Yusuf, of course, had politely declined. And that appeared to be the subject of their conversation as Nicolo hurried into the courtyard.

“ _Never_ , though? What about when the water isn’t safe to drink? Or, where you come from: do you not have spoiled water? Is yours always safe?”

Yusuf shook his head. “No, no: but we use processes to clean it, and we have juices from fruits, of course, and milk.”

Mama sniffed. “Oh, _really_. But this is just grape juice! What’s the harm?”

“Ah, it is _haram_ ,” Yusuf explained apologetically. “Much like, ah, Nicolo! What is it? No land animals on Fridays, yes?”

“In so many words,” Nicolo agreed, eyes darting between his mother and Yusuf. Mama held out a hand and Nicolo hurried over, kissing her knuckles and dipping to one knee.

“Our God practically _orders_ us to drink wine,” Mama laughed, turning to Nicolo. “Isn’t that right?”

Nicolo’s lips curled up into the smallest smile. “Well, it is not wine we drink, but the blood of Christ.”

“I don’t think I can get away with that excuse,” Yusuf observed. “Since we don’t believe in the divinity of Christ.”

“Ah, _Madre de Dio_ ,” Mama huffed, crossing herself.

“We believe he was a prophet!” Yusuf offered. “Muhammad, peace be upon him, thought of Jesus as a wonderful prophet of God. Just, not so much His _son_.”

“The ‘son’ part is a pretty big deal,” Nicolo pointed out. Mama straightened from her repose and gestured to have Nicolo join her on her bench. As soon as he sat down she opened her arms and wrapped Nicolo in a hug, rocking him back and forth in an embarrassing display of maternal affection. But of course, Nicolo knew this very well could be one of the last times he ever felt her embrace, so he closed his eyes, smelled her hair, and committed the feel of his mother to memory, for as long as that memory may last.

She offered him his own glass of wine when she had temporarily gotten her fill of hugging him and he drank deeply. It was sweet white wine from their own vineyard—too sweet often to sell, but Nicolo had always loved his family’s terribly sweet wines. And now he needn’t worry about the headaches they usually left him with the next day.

Mama gestured at Yusuf with her wine glass. “Nicolo, you tell me: he never drinks?”

“Not that I’ve ever seen,” Nicolo confirmed, his and Yusuf’s eyes meeting, full of mirth. “Though I suppose he could be sneaking off when I’m not looking.”

“Oh, well that must be a very rare time indeed,” Mama observed, shooting Yusuf an appreciative look. “Who would let such a handsome young man out of their sight!”

“Mama…”

Mama hushed Nicolo. “Giorgio is married some ten years now, with his lot of children; Davide has his wife and their two—hopefully more soon, but the poor girl is so small, the pregnancies are hard for her. And your sisters both married well and gone off to their husband’s estates: what do I care who you bed? You are a third son, my Nicolino: you are blessed and cursed with freedom.”

“‘Nicolino?’” Yusuf asked, glancing between Mama and Nicolo.

Nicolo searched for a word Yusuf would understand—“diminutive”, he did not think, was in Yusuf’s Genovese vocabulary. “A small. There is a _fratello_ , and then there is my _fratellino_.” Nicolo gestured with his hands, holding his hand to his head for the height of the brother, and then dropping it down to his knees for the _little_ brother. Yusuf’s face lit up and he said something in Maghrebi which Nicolo was sure meant “diminutive.”

“Ah, so you are not _Nicolo_ ,” Yusuf mused. “You are Mama’s _Nicolino_.”

“Sì, sì,” Mama exclaimed joyfully, clapping her hands together. “Oh, he was always so small, too, compared to his brothers.” She poked his ribs. “Still is, ai. Have you not been eating?”

“ _He_ feeds _me_ ,” Yusuf assured Mama, who clicked her tongue worriedly.

“Ah, you can’t let him, though! He does that and forgets to eat himself, I’m sure. Used to do it all the time with our animals. He’d spend half the day feeding them and then fall asleep in the fields from hunger and the sun.”

“ _Nicolino_ ,” Yusuf mock-gasped. “You must take better care of yourself.”

“He must,” Mama agreed. But then she wagged a finger at Yusuf. “ _You_! You need to make sure he is taken care of! No eating his food until you are fat without making sure he eats, too.”

Yusuf glanced down at his—perfectly flat—stomach, frowning worriedly. But Mama only laughed and stood so she could walk over and pat his cheek.

“You are a good boy, Yusuf. Don’t you worry. Now come, come: speaking of food!” Mama gathered them both up, one boy on each arm as she practically marched them to the dining room. “Should be just about ready for dinner. And Yusuf: we’ll have to find something you can drink. Honestly, it’s just _inconvenient_. I can’t have a guest drinking _water_ at the table…”

* * *

The next day Yusuf and Nicolo took their horses out for a tour of Nicolo’s family’s estate. The vineyards, mountainsides, and pastures were much as Nicolo remembered them. They tied off their horses to feed the pigs and Yusuf ended up making friends with one goat in particular, even naming him Idriss and declaring that he would buy him from Nicolo’s parents—to do what with, Nicolo had no earthly idea, as the next place their travels would take them would be back across the Mediterranean. They plucked bundles of grapes together and ate them as they rode, making a game of trying to toss grapes into each other’s mouths.

“Is your mother horribly insulted because I can’t drink your wine?” Yusuf asked as they started to head back around noon.

“No. No.” Nicolo shook his head, the idea too absurd to consider. “She is just… Genovese. We must argue about everything. It is how you know we like you.”

Yusuf considered this as they rode. After a moment he turned to Nicolo. “You do not fight with me that much.”

“Yusuf, _mi amore_ : I’ve killed you two dozen times.”

Yusuf’s laughter echoed across the hills, ringing their way home.

* * *

Yusuf was examining the small yellow and green fruits, turning them over in his hands, smelling one and then the other.

“We make a juice from it, too: not just wine. I will have some seated at your place at dinner,” Mama was saying. Nicolo perked up. Oh, he had _missed_ limoncello. The fruit had not made it south of the Mediterranean—not as far as he had encountered, at least. And Yusuf had never seen such a thing. But, oh: his family’s limoncello. That was worth coming home for (as well as everything else).

“But you say it is bitter? Is it the skin?”

Mama shook her head, her golden curls pinned back only loosely, spilling over the shoulders of her dress. “No no, not bitter: _sour_.”

Yusuf repeated the Genovese word, then shook his head. He glanced at Nicolo. “I do not know…”

Nicolo had an idea. A terribly wicked idea.

“Ah, you will know. Look, have a taste.” Taking a knife from his belt, Nicolo made quick work of slicing the lemon into four wedges. He handed one to Yusuf and kept one for himself. He brought it towards his mouth, as if to eat it. “Go on. You will know it: _sour_. _Sour_ means this.”

Yusuf shrugged and bit into the lemon with gusto. Nicolo grinned, dropping his wedge from his mouth, no intention of ever eating it. Yusuf hooted, yanking the lemon from his mouth, whole face screwed up with the _sour_ fruit. He swore and then said something in Maghrebi—not a swear, so it must be: _sour_.

Nicolo laughed and his mother joined him, but of course she was also apologizing for Nicolo’s little prank and passing him a glass of goat’s milk.

“Oh, my Nicolino, he can be such a little devil sometimes, here, here.”

“Mama, do you have honey?”

“Of course, I was just about to make it for you.”

Nicolo passed his lemon wedge over to his mother who dripped honey atop it before handing it back. Nicolo sighed as he bit into the fruit, sour taste now mitigated by the sweet honey. Yusuf was watching him warily.

“It is good, like this.” Nicolo nodded at his mother. “I promise.”

Warily Yusuf passed a second wedge off to Nicolo’s mother, watching curiously as she dripped honey on it. When he carefully bit into his wedge his eyes lit up.

“Ah, there! It is good, now.” He chewed the fruit down to the rind happily, even licking his fingers. “Ah, we should put some _sakharon_ on it! It would be even sweeter!”

Mama frowned at him, mouth working around the strange word before she turned to Nicolo. “ _Sakharon_?”

“Sweetness, from a reed,” Nicolo explained. “They are cultivating it all over Sicily now. Brown, a… like a grain. Coarser than flour. But sweet: sweeter than honey.”

Mama frowned. “But dry, like a grain?”

“ _Sì_. You bake with it, like flour. But it… ah, it melts, when it gets hot. In the _Abbasid_ they make art from it. Delicate sculptures, like… icicles.”

“Nicolo, why do you describe this to your mother like she will never see it?” Yusuf went over and clasped Mama’s hands as she looked eagerly up at him. “ _Signora_ , I brought you the finest Abbasid sugar. I can make a sculpture of your villa tonight, out of this delicate grain. I could make an entire, ah, Nicolo, what is it, with the baby Jesus and his parents, in the barn?”

“Nativity.”

“I can make you an entire nativity scene,” Yusuf promised— _over_ -promised, because he was no deft hand at sugar sculpture, Nicolo knew. He could make delicate little houses, and shapes that sort of looked like this or that farm animal, but sugarwork was one medium Yusuf had yet to master.

Still, Mama lit up and grabbed excitedly at Yusuf’s arms, tugging him down to kiss his cheeks. Nicolo smiled softly to himself as he watched his mother embrace Yusuf, and Yusuf smile kindly and offer his crafts and foods to her, bringing some small part of his homeland all the way to Genova, just to please her, to make her smile and delight.

Nicolo’s heart swelled with love for this man, and love for his beautiful, still yet youthful looking mother, with her golden hair and bright eyes. He took after his mother in looks, much more than his father. Nicolo told himself that, forced himself to remember it like a mantra: _you have her eyes. You have her hair. You have her nose._ So that one day, some long distant day, when the memory of her face threatened to fade, and he couldn’t remember the shape of her smile or the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, he could just look in a mirror and find those pieces of her, and remember.

 _He made her laugh. He made her smile_.

Nicolo wrapped his arms around himself and watched Yusuf slide next to Mama on the bench, regaling her with tales of all the unusual confections he had seen in his travels.

* * *

It wasn’t until the first night on the ship back across the Mediterranean that Nicolo grieved.

He had climbed on top of the railing, where he wouldn’t be disturbed, and cried and prayed the wind and waves snatched the sound of his shameful tears away before anyone could overhear them. But of course, there was one man on board who heard his tears—maybe not with his ears, but with his heart. At least, that seemed like the sort of thing Yusuf would say.

Yusuf was silent as he sat beside Nicolo, joining him on the rail. He tilted his head back and stared at the stars, Milky Way rising in the horizon. Nicolo continued to cry, unable to stop the tears as his soul spilled over with love for his mother, and the knowledge that he would never lay eyes on her again. The fear that one day he would forget her, the sound of her voice, the way she smelled. If they lived long enough time would steal his mother away from him, and there would be no one on earth who remembered her: not even her own son. And then what would he be? A man without a past, a man without a family, without a country, a childhood, a people. He’d speak a language long dead, of a people who no longer existed. Like the ancient Etruscans, buried and swarmed over by the Romans, forgotten and discarded. He would be adrift, unanchored. And his mother would be a ghost long since gone.

Yusuf’s shoulder was warm and dry in spite of the night chill and seafoam spray of the Mediterranean. Nicolo rested against it when his body was too tired to cry any longer but his tears had not run near dry. Yusuf wrapped an arm around him and held him, smelling entirely unlike Nicolo’s mother, like sandalwood and exotic spices. But the tune he hummed as they rocked together with the waves was a tune his mother hummed while she worked, and Nicolo could close his eyes and remember his mother for now.

They landed in Egypt and Nicolo slept for two days, barely rising to eat and relieve himself. On the third day, like Christ Himself, Nicolo figured he should rise and rejoin the world. He didn’t feel born again, just tired. But he knew he couldn’t spend eternity mourning his mother. After all, God willing, adult children could expect to one day bury their mothers. He likely would have, if he hadn’t gone off to Jerusalem, the spare third son trying to serve his family and province and God. And he had, thanks to the grace of God, gotten to see his mother again, and introduce her to the man Nicolo knew he’d be spending eternity with, in one form or another. He was blessed, truly. The time for mourning was passed.

It did not mean he rose with a smile. But he rose, at least, and shaved his face, and cleaned himself.

Yusuf, who had risen with the sun, returned with some pastries and fruit for breakfast, and smiled when he found Nicolo wiping off his freshly shorn cheeks.

“Beautiful,” Yusuf murmured, kissing him on one smooth cheek. Nicolo grumbled in disagreement but accepted the kiss.

Over breakfast Yusuf kept glancing at Nicolo until it became impossible to ignore. Sighing, Nicolo swallowed his last bite of pastry and stared at Yusuf.

“Come: speak. You look like a skittish squirrel.”

Yusuf pouted, but he was already getting up and grabbing something from his pack. Nicolo sat back and waited for whatever it was. Yusuf returned with one hand closed into a fist. The other reached for Nicolo, brushing his long, golden locks back from his face. Nicolo sighed and tilted his head into the palm, eyes fluttering closed as it cupped his jaw, his cheek. After a moment Yusuf whispered “Nicolo,” and Nicolo opened his eyes. There, in the palm of Yusuf’s hand, was his mother.

Tears fell heavy from Nicolo’s eyes and he wiped frantically at them, leaning back so he wouldn’t accidentally stain the portrait in miniature.

“Yusuf… how…”

“I went to a vendor. I am not this skilled,” he admitted. “But I will be. I commissioned him not only for this piece, but also for his tutelage. I will devote myself to learning how to recreate your mother’s face, before it fades from our memories. And I will draw it for you, again and again, from now until the end of time, so that you never forget. One day we will be making art with stardust and moonbeams, and my Nicolo, I will trace your mother’s fair hair with stars, and highlight her cheeks with rays from the very sun itself. I will paint your mother’s face onto the fabric of the night sky so that you never forget the beautiful, kind woman you were made of. My golden, my kind Nicolo: this I promise you.”

Carefully Nicolo set the portraiture aside with a reverence normally saved for iconography. Then he pulled Yusuf into his arms, captured his mouth with his own, and they were falling, tumbling into each other as Nicolo thanked Yusuf again, and again, and then a third time, even though it delayed their lunch and Yusuf pled for mercy. That morning Nicolo smiled again, in Yusuf’s arms, third day risen.

* * *

For the hundredth time Fatima tried to chase Nicolo out of her kitchen with a spoon, and for the hundredth time Nicolo gently redirected her spoon and turned her attention to a dish on the stove.

“Does this look right? Does it need more water?”

Fatima shook her head firmly and swiped a finger through it, not minding the heat for a second. After taking a taste, eyes rolled up to the ceiling in most serious thought, she shook her head and shoved Nicolo aside.

“No, no. See, you Genovese: too afraid of spices. Let me show you.”

“We use spices,” Nicolo pleaded, for the hundredth time. And for the hundredth time, Fatima added more spices to the dish so it would be nearly impossible for Nicolo to eat it without his eyes watering. In fact, judging by the smell already stinging his eyes from the stove, Nicolo was sure he would be crying at dinner tonight. Ah, well: it was her kitchen. Nicolo was merely a guest in it. And a rude one, at that: one who kept insisting that he could help, and constantly got underfoot. Nicolo smiled to himself as she swatted him aside again and squinted suspiciously at the pot of rice he had simmering at the back of the hearth.

“When did you put that on?”

“It is fine, Hajjia, please-”

“‘ _Umi_ , Umi!’ When will you call me ‘Umi,’ like I’ve told you?” Fatima tsked. Despite Nicolo’s protestations she peered into the pot of rice, squinting suspiciously at the grains of rice.

“Five more minutes-” Nicolo protested.

“Three,” she said. Nicolo ducked his head to hide a smile, quickly transforming it into a respectful bow.

“Yes, Hajjia-”

“‘ _Umi_!’”

Not too longer later—longer than three minutes, but less than ten—Nicolo was finally banished from the kitchen for good, but he managed to escape holding two pots in hand—one full of rice, the other full of the vegetables he had been sautéing earlier (that were now sizzlingly spicy). Yusuf floated his way towards the dining table as if physically pulled by the scent of his mother’s (and Nicolo’s) cooking.

“Ah, _habibata_ , that smells amazing,” Yusuf moaned, slotting himself to Nicolo’s side and resting his hand on his lower back. After Nicolo had set the dishes down in the center of the table Yusuf bussed a kiss to his cheek. Nicolo flushed and tried to subtly pull away, but of course Yusuf wasn’t having it. He stuck to Nicolo’s side even as his mother came out, tutting at the boys to _move_ so she could place the centerpiece, a rack of lamb (which Nicolo had _not_ been allowed to prepare) on the dining table.

“Boys, boys, move your rumps!” she chided. “Look at this: the table is hardly set! Where are the drinks? Yusuf!”

“Sorry, Umi,” Yusuf apologized like the good son he was, pressing a kiss to his mother’s cheek as he hurried past her to get the cups and water for drinking.

As Nicolo set off to figure out a way to make himself useful Fatima tsked and pointed at the cushions surrounding the table. “Not you, Nicolo! Sit! You are a _guest_.”

And, because there was no fighting Fatima, and because he had already contributed enough to the dinner to assuage any guilt, Nicolo set himself on the cushion that had slowly become ‘his’ over the many weeks he and Yusuf had been in his mother’s home. Yusuf came back quickly with cups and the water jug, practically knocking them over in his rush to set the table and settle down alongside Nicolo.

“Did you finally learn how to season the vegetables properly or did _Umi_ fix it for you?” Yusuf asked, lacing their fingers together on top of his thigh.

“May you burn the tongues out of your mouths,” Nicolo grumbled. Yusuf laughed and kissed his fingers.

“Ah, so no. You still insisted on trying to serve your bland vegetables. At my _mother’s_ table.”

“As if she would ever let me get them past her,” Nicolo whispered conspiratorially. “She checked on my _rice_.”

“Well you did burn it the first time you tried.”

“The _first_ time. _One_ time.”

Fatima reentered the home, waving vaguely at them as she waddled quickly over to them. “That sister of yours, she says she has to feed her good-for-nothing husband.”

“Feed him here,” Yusuf said, though it was an old argument. Fatima waved him off as she sat.

“It is that mother of his, is the problem. In the name of _Allah_ , the gracious, the merciful.”

Yusuf quickly repeated the prayer and Nicolo silently prayed _In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen._ and crossed himself. Yusuf shoved him with his shoulder when he did, to which Nicolo responded by shoving back—just lightly, of course.

“What about you, Yusuf?” Fatima demanded as she made quick work of serving them all in turn, gesturing impatiently at Nicolo’s plate so she could portion out exactly how much she thought he needed to eat—much more than he’d ever be able to stomach, of course.

“What about what?” Yusuf asked, confused.

“‘What about what,’ honestly: what about _grandchildren_?”

Yusuf’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “We were talking about grandchildren?”

“Yes, of course. It’s why your sister can’t come tonight.”

Yusuf looked around. “Is she pregnant?”

“No, of course not.” Fatima sighed loudly. “But that mother-in-law of hers: she _thinks_ she knows how to feed Naziha to get her pregnant.” Fatima looked at Nicolo. “Clearly, she doesn’t know so well, or my daughter would be pregnant with her second child by now.”

“ _Umi_ ,” Yusuf groaned.

“So: grandchildren. At this rate, Naziha won’t give me any. So I need you, my beautiful son.”

Nicolo and Yusuf glanced at each other worriedly. Had they not been obvious? Nicolo _thought_ they had been, although he knew Maghrebi men much more openly displayed their affection for each other than they did in Genova. Kisses on the cheek, holding hands: was it possible Yusuf’s mother did not know? Would they need to tell her?

Nicolo froze. Would she find it acceptable? Would she wail and rage, kick Nicolo out of her kitchen and home forever? Did she know and still assume that Yusuf would get married to a woman and produce a half dozen fat and happy grandchildren for her to dote on? Nicolo’s stomach curdled at the thought, even as he knew Yusuf would never—not with their gift (curse).

“Umi…” Yusuf started, eyes flickering worriedly between Nicolo and his mother. Deliberately he put his hand on Nicolo’s thigh. “I am sorry, I never meant to deceive you. I thought I had been clear, when I brought Nicolo into your home…”

Fatima scoffed and waved a hand. “What? That you found yourself this skinny Genoan to give your heart to? Yusuf, _abnay_ : I know this. And so: when will you two give me grandchildren?”

Nicolo flushed, hand grabbing at Yusuf’s thigh worriedly. She knew he was a _man_ , didn’t she?? No, she must: when they went to pray at mosque Nicolo went with Yusuf, to his side of the mosque. She had seen him without a shirt! She _must_ know Genovese women weren’t _that_ different from Maghrebi women. No matter how skinny they may be!

“Umi…”

“You always were a clever boy,” Fatima continued, undeterred. “You’ll figure out a way. There are orphans, there are women who could birth a child of your own flesh and blood, for the right price…”

“Umi!”

Fatima wagged a finger at Yusuf. “I don’t care where they come from! I will even tend to thin blond children,” she gestured at Nicolo for that, “and teach the Genoan how to fatten up a child _properly_. As long as you two give me grandchildren!”

Yusuf broke down laughing, hiding his face in his hands. Nicolo longed for proper chairs at a table up off the ground, if only so he could slink beneath it and hide his glowing red face.

“Umi, I… We’ll see what we can do,” he finally settled on, much to Nicolo’s embarrassment. But then Yusuf glanced over at him, shyly smiling from beneath his hands, and Nicolo’s heart stopped in his chest. Oh.

How he’d give Yusuf children, if he could. If it weren’t a tragedy waiting for them, as yet unwritten.

That night Yusuf climbed on top of Nicolo, bracketing him against pillows and blankets with his arms and thighs. Nicolo let himself be taken, willfully, joyfully, clinging tight to Yusuf and stroking his hair as Yusuf spilled his release between Nicolo’s thighs. Yusuf kissed his temple, his cheeks, roughly, whispering declarations of his love, of their union, of family and home, wherever they both were.

* * *

Yusuf’s father was out on business for a few weeks when Yusuf finally decided the time was right to tell his mother.

Nicolo still thought it was a poor idea. Not because of Fatima, who was everything Nicolo could have hoped for in the mother of his beloved. Oh, she was bossy, and nosy, but she loved her son deeply, and by extension she loved all he did and whomever he loved. She was happy to teach Nicolo how to cook all of Yusuf’s favorite meals just the way he liked him, and Nicolo cherished the time he had with her, memorizing every spice, every story, picking out the parts of her face that Yusuf carried on so that one day, a thousand years from now, if Yusuf turned to him and asked, _My mother, my umi, Nicolo…_ Nicolo could take him to a mirror and say _here, tesoro, here, don’t you see? Your eyes, the lines that wrinkle at the corners. Your cheeks, the slope from the bridge of your nose down, there, below the cheek bone. Your forehead, do you see, where your mother too had those vertical lines up both sides—wisdom lines, the Romans called them. Do you see her, Yusuf?_

No, it was not Fatima that Nicolo feared, but the unanswerable mystery of their inhuman condition. Still: it was Yusuf’s mother, and Yusuf’s decision. He had not pressured Nicolo to change his mind in regard to his own mother, and Nicolo would treat his decision with the same respect. No matter the cold fist of fear that squeezed at his heart.

“Umi!” Yusuf called, coming up behind his mother to wrap her in a bear hug. She was busy—she was _always_ busy—fingers carefully threading the links of a gold mesh necklace. She didn’t miss a beat of her work even as Yusuf shook her lightly and pressed a smacking kiss to her hair. Instead, she clicked her tongue at him in reproach.

“They need you at the shop today, Yusuf. With your father gone-”

Yusuf groaned. “I know, I know. Nicolo and I were going to head there after lunch, I promise.” Fatima hummed like she didn’t believe him, fingers still wrapping the gold wire into circlets linked around one to the next. “But before we did, I wanted to speak to you.” Yusuf glanced at Nicolo, like he was going to include him in this. Shocked, Nicolo shook his head, though later he would regret that. Would it have helped, if Yusuf had said this conversation came from the both of them? If Nicolo had spoken up earlier, been Yusuf’s equal voice? Nicolo never thought it would, but he would never know, because he shook his head, and Yusuf respected that.

“What?” Fatima asked, still distracted. But Yusuf placed his hands over hers, and finally she looked up, brows drawn down. “Yusuf?”

“It’s alright, Umi. It’s good!”

Fatima squinted suspiciously at him, but she set aside her jewelry-making and placed her hands in her lap.

“Well?” She cut her eyes over to Nicolo. “You can’t have a grandchild for me already.”

Yusuf giggled and shook his head, sitting down cross-legged in front of his mother.

“No. But… well…” Yusuf shook his head.

Nicolo’s heart ached. Yusuf had been practicing. Writing and rewriting the lines of this moment, trying to create his own story before it happened. He would spend nights in their room pacing, sitting in the window, muttering to himself as he worked to get the words just right. Of course, now, with his mother in front of him, all the words abandoned him. Nicolo knew the feeling well, and could only watch and lend silent support.

“Nicolo and I met in Jerusalem. I was defending the city.”

“I know,” Fatima said, reaching out to cover his hand. “My brave boy.”

“Nicolo was on the other side. Fighting.” Yusuf grinned crookedly. “He was attacking the city for their Pope.”

Fatima’s eyes narrowed, shot over to Nicolo. He slouched, trying to make himself look smaller, shuffled his feet. He couldn’t meet those eyes so he kept them downcast, suitably ashamed in his role trying to wrest a city from people just trying to live their lives.

“I jumped from the walls,” Yusuf continued. Fatima gasped, but it was the gasp of hearing an exciting story and already knowing the ending. After all, her son was here before her: the story must end well.

Nicolo swallowed and slowly dropped into a crouch.

“I was no skilled warrior, but Allah guided my hand that day,” Yusuf continued. He was warming up, his way with words flourishing as his nerves ebbed. “I cut down many of Nicolo’s fellow men—to protect the city and the families living within. And then I found myself standing before a most terrible sight to behold.” Yusuf glanced over his shoulder and grinned at Nicolo. For his part, Nicolo could not return the smile. He put his hands over his mouth and waited.

Fatima, no dumb woman, gathered that this was their great love story. Of course the ‘terrible sight’ was going to be Nicolo. She smiled indulgently as her boy spun his tale.

“Here was a knight, head to toe covered in metal armor, a blood-red cross hanging from his chest. His beard, red and blonde, was long and matted-” Nicolo scratched at his bare cheeks self-consciously, and Fatima stole a glance over at him, giggling. “His hair: like a lion’s!” He glanced over at Nicolo and shrugged. “An underfed, filthy lion’s.”

Nicolo forced a smile, but he was still waiting. And watching Fatima’s face.

“We fought. It was terrible to behold, Umi. I was unskilled, but so was he-”

“Made for each other,” Nicolo interjected, unable to help himself. Yusuf’s eyes lit up as he turned to him.

“Yes! Precisely. Only, we did not know how much.”

Now, Yusuf took his mother’s hands in his. He met her eyes and held them, expression serious.

“We fought. My scimitar met his longsword. It was like the rest of the battle fell away until all that was left was this brute of a knight, standing before me, trying to force his way into this city, to harm everyone and anyone who lived there. I couldn’t let that happen. I threw myself at him, hit him with my shoulder. He stumbled. I struck. Slashed at his arm—hit bone.”

Fatima gasped, hand to her mouth. Nicolo watched her eyes. Waiting.

Yusuf shushed her, took her hand back into his own. “He struck back: slammed his helmeted brow into mine, knocked me off-balance, stumbling backwards. He could barely lift his left arm, but with a roar of rage and battle-strength, one-handed he swung his longsword, hitting me in the neck.” Yusuf held his mother’s eyes. “It cleaved me nearly in two. Cut down through my shoulder, my chest. My ribs splintered like kindling under the force of the blow. With the last of my strength—my heart might have been punctured, my lungs most certainly were, but I was yet still standing—I thrust my scimitar forward and slid it between the beast’s ribs.” Yusuf looked to Nicolo, voice rough. “His eyes were green. They were the last thing I saw as I died.” He looked back to his mother.

Fatima was, understandably, confused. She shook her head, squinting as she tried to make sense of Yusuf’s fantastical tale.

“It must be by Allah’s grace you two are standing today.”

“It is,” Yusuf agreed. He brought her hands up to his lips and kissed them both. “It is. Because that was not the only time we killed each other. When I awoke, the battle had left us. But this barbarian: he was still alive. Coming to life, in fact, as I was. I struck out again, in fear: I thought he would kill me again. And he did. He had a stone in his hand, and as he fell on my scimitar, he brought the stone down on my skull, crushing it.” Yusuf took a careful breath. “We died, again. In each other’s arms.”

Fatima still frowned at him, face dulled with confusion. _She thinks it’s a metaphor_ , Nicolo thought. Hyperbole, for the sake of storytelling. Yusuf’s way with words. He waited, eyes fixed on Fatima, as Yusuf continued.

“When next I came back to the world of the living, the brute was just stirring on top of my breast. I shoved him off of me, scrambled to the side. I called out to him: called him a devil, asked him what demon he had bargained with. I warned him away, held my scimitar in front of me. I did not want to kill him again, for it was growing clear: Allah had no place for him in heaven. Not yet. But he screamed back in his language, and charged at me with his sword. He ran me through again. I struck at him as I died, but not enough to be a killing blow.

“When I awoke he was still there. He was crying. Wordlessly he held out a hand to me… and then sliced it with a dagger. I watched, in wonder, as the skin knitted itself back to wholeness before my eyes. I tried the same trick on myself, with the same result.”

Fatima frowned. “What is the point of this story, Yusuf? I don’t understand.”

“Umi.” Yusuf kissed her fingers again. “We are blessed, Umi. Allah has blessed us. We do not die. We do not hurt. We are made whole, no matter what harm befalls us. Me, and Nicolo. We live: we will always live.”

Fatima laughed, breaking her son’s gaze to look back at Nicolo, see if he was laughing with her. Nicolo put his fist over his mouth and said nothing: but he met her eyes. He waited. Her laughter trailed off into silence, into a frown, into… She turned back to her son.

“What are you saying? I don’t understand.”

Sighing, Yusuf pulled a small knife from his hip. Holding out his arm, he nodded at his mother.

“Look, mother. Look: we are made whole.” He slashed the knife across his arm. Fatima cried out, reaching for him.

And then, she pulled back.

The wound healed itself easily. Within seconds it was closed. Yusuf wiped the blood from his arm with his opposite sleeve, then turned it this way and that to his mother.

“Don’t you see, Umi? We are _blessed_.”

Fatima stood. Confused, Yusuf stumbled to his feet with her, while Nicolo, keeping himself still off to the side, did the same.

“What is this? What is this trick?”

“It’s not a trick, Umi. I died,” Yusuf pressed a hand to his chest, “at Nicolo’s hand. And he died by mine. But then we came _back_. And now: we cannot be harmed. Death cannot take us—not permanently. And we… we think we will live. Keep living. Forever.”

“What is this,” Fatima hissed. “What is _this_.”

“Umi?” Yusuf sounded confused. Nicolo’s shoulders sagged. Oh, Yusuf.

“You… you bring this… this curse under my roof? You… you are rejected from Allah’s heaven? Cursed to walk the earth until the end of days? Until judgement? Forever separated from Allah’s loving embrace?”

“Umi? No, no, this is not a curse-”

“You are _cursed_ , Yusuf,” Fatima spat. She moved from him, putting as much space as she could between herself and her eldest boy. Her hands clasped in front of herself as if in prayer. “What did you do, my son? What did you do to displease Allah so?”

“No, Umi, can’t you see? This is a blessing, Allah has smiled upon us-”

“Allah has _rejected_ you!”

“Umi-”

“Don’t touch me!” Fatima shouted.

Nicolo moved without a thought to Yusuf’s side, pulling him back. Yusuf had started to stumble forward, to reach for his mother.

“Yusuf, mi amore. Yusuf, maybe we should-”

But Yusuf shrugged Nicolo off, eyes fixed on his mother. He took a step forward, even as she took a step back.

“Umi: how are you not happy for me? I cannot get sick, I cannot be harmed. We,” Yusuf threw his arm back to Nicolo, gesturing between him and his own chest. “We saved people, in Jerusalem. In Mecca. We’ve saved lives, with the help of our gift.”

“It is _unnatural_ ,” Fatima whispered, tears in her eyes. “I- Of course I want to see you safe from harm. But not like this, Yusuf. Not like this.” She sniffed, wiping at her eyes. “Not banished forever from heaven. Yusuf: what of when I go? I will never see you again. We will never be united in Allah’s kingdom.”

A sob bubbled up from Yusuf’s throat. He shook his head, stumbling another step towards her. At least this time she didn’t move away. He grasped at her hands, but her eyes, even as they shown with tears, were like Damascus steel.

“Umi,” Yusuf begged, clinging to her. He fell to his knees, clutching at her skirts like a child, cheeks shining with tears as he gazed up at her. Nicolo swallowed and stayed where he was, knowing he could do nothing in this moment between mother and son.

“Umi, it’s me,” Yusuf cried. “It’s Yusuf. Your son.”

“You were once,” Fatima agreed. A sob ripped from Yusuf’s throat, weeping openly, loudly, at his mother’s knee.

“Umi…”

“I will not tell your father,” Fatima said.

Yusuf stared at her, not understanding.

“We will spare him this horror.”

“Yusuf,” Nicolo whispered. He stepped forward, laying his hands on Yusuf’s shoulders. His and Fatima’s eyes met, above Yusuf’s head. Her eyes were wide, terrified. But her jaw was set, her brow firm.

 _There is so much of her in Yusuf_ , Nicolo thought, memorizing her every line even as his heart broke. Fatima jut her chin out at him.

“Come, Yusuf,” Nicolo whispered again, gentling him back until he was standing. Fatima continued to watch Nicolo: she appeared to be searching his eyes. What for, Nicolo was afraid to guess. _Did you know_? But of course he did: Yusuf had said as much, had implicated Nicolo equally with himself in this unnatural life. _Did you do this to my boy?_ If she was feeling ungenerous, maybe.

 _Will you take care of him_?

Perhaps he always thought the best of people, even when he shouldn’t. But what harm could come of thinking the best of Yusuf’s mother right now, when she was going through probably the hardest moment of her life: turning her back on her eldest son, her golden child, because she believed, in her very _soul_ , that it was what her God wanted.

Nicolo could understand.

And so Nicolo assumed the best. And he met her eyes, and he nodded, even as he tucked Yusuf into his shoulder and led him away.

 _I will take care of him. For all of our unnatural life_.

* * *

It was a bad night for everyone. Nicolo stayed awake because Yusuf did: crying himself to exhaustion, dozing for ten minutes, a half hour, before jerking awake and arguing with himself, coming up with delayed responses to his mother, turning the conversation and her objections over and over again and again in his mind, picking them apart from every angle, sure that if he could just _talk_ to her, if he could overwhelm her with words, he could convince her of the beauty of their circumstance, of the smiling face of Allah that had shone down on Yusuf and Nicolo that brutal day on the sands outside of Jerusalem. And so Yusuf would pace, would try out the arguments on Nicolo, would tell him _yes, see, she must accept this. This, this is the one that will make her see_. And Nicolo would say nothing, and Yusuf would worry, and the magnitude of his mother’s rejection would hit him again, and the sorrow would overwhelm his optimistic heart. And the process would begin all over again.

When Yusuf was dozing, Nicolo would listen to the house and the city beyond it. Fatima was not sleeping well either. He could hear her soft crying on the other side of their modest home, and her pacing as she moved about, restless with worry, with doubt, with fear. In the darkest part of night he heard her collecting some things and leave, only returning over an hour later. It was to get water, he realized, when he heard the tell-tale sounds of a brush sloshing in water and then scrubbing along the kitchen counters. He sighed and brushed a hand through Yusuf’s curls, eyes burning from lack of sleep and unshed tears.

Would his mother have responded any better? Nicolo feared not, which is why he’d foregone burdening her with the knowledge. Now he would never know. He could always imagine that she would have been delighted, would have kissed Nicolo on the cheeks and sung God’s praises for blessing her perfect, special little _Nicolino_. But then, she might have reacted just as Fatima was: with horror, with revulsion, with fear and sorrow and sadness. And she could have been worse: she could have taken the news and cursed Nicolo with it, set Church Inquisitors on him, called him a demon and a witch and Satan’s catamite.

Dawn broke rosy-fingered and beautiful. Yusuf sat cross-legged on the edge of his mattress and stared up at his window, gazing at the sky. Behind him, Nicolo set to work silently packing their things. When Yusuf turned around and caught him at it, his mouth dropped open, horrified, ready to protest. But then he seemed to realize the necessity of what Nicolo was doing and turned away from him, saying nothing. Nicolo knew he was still going to try: to talk to his mother, to _explain_ it to her, to make her _understand_. But Nicolo also knew what he’d seen in Fatima’s eyes yesterday. There might have been grief, there might have been compassion, there might even have been love: but that didn’t change the facts of the matter, or her resolve. Yusuf was no longer her son, and could never be: not while this unnatural life lay upon him.

Nicolo thought he would wait in their bedroom, finish packing up, but Yusuf took his hand and pulled him out into the house, whispering “breakfast. You’re hungry, aren’t you, _habibata_?” And although Nicolo had no appetite, he followed by Yusuf’s side because that’s what he was asking of him.

Fatima was in the kitchen, cooking. Because it was against her nature not to cook for her boy, even if he might be a God-cursed sinner, excommunicated forever from the kingdom of heaven. Yusuf started towards her, offering a hand, but Fatima turned her back to him, message clear. Miserable, Yusuf set about setting the table: the most he could offer in the moment. Nicolo helped get the glasses and squeeze juice for their breakfast, careful to stay out of Fatima’s kitchen as much as possible.

They sat at the table together, but Fatima didn’t lead them in prayer. Nicolo mumbled his own grace under his breath and crossed himself, not missing the look Fatima threw him as he did. Was it _How dare you pretend to still be in God’s grace?_ Or _Why do you do that, if you cannot die_? Or perhaps _Pray all you want: it will do no good when judgement comes for you_. There was no telling, and Fatima was eating in silence, so all Nicolo could do was serve Yusuf and then himself and eat, even if Fatima’s heavily spiced food tasted like ash in his mouth.

“Umi…”

“You are to leave and never return,” Fatima told him.

Yusuf’s expression crumpled. His hands fell, palms up, on the table. He looked crucified, Nicolo thought. Not that Yusuf would appreciate the comparison.

“Umi…”

“You can take your time. A few days. But you must be gone before your father returns. And you must never darken our doorway again.”

Nicolo reached out and rested his hand on Yusuf’s thigh. His love, never one to retreat from a fight, merely nodded miserably.

They were gone before the sun set. Yusuf never laid eyes upon his mother again.

* * *

Nile gasped when she opened the door and Nicky and Joe barged their way in.

“What the hell are you guys doing?! What is all this??”

“Excuse me, Nile,” Nicky said as he maneuvered his armfuls of groceries passed the gaping girl and unerringly found his way to the kitchen.

“Just some hostess gifts,” Joe explained, dropping a kiss to her cheek and then moving past her, his own arms laden with flowers and giftbags. “And where can we find the hostess?”

“Ma!” Nile shouted, slamming the door shut now that the two uninvited immortal dinner guests had successfully stormed her mother’s house and penetrated her very best defenses. “Uh… Company!”

Nile’s mother practically _flew_ downstairs at that, adjusting her wig even as she jogged. She hissed at Nile from halfway down the stairs, trying to peer around to see who the hell was in her house.

“What d’you mean, company? Company who?”

“These guys I work with,” Nile lied smoothly (was it even a lie?). “They knew I was coming to visit you and I guess they… uh…”

“Nile! Your mother doesn’t have any food allergies, does she?” Nicky shouted from the kitchen. Nile’s mom stared at her and Nile stared back until she just settled on shrugging helplessly.

“I guess they’re making dinner??”

“What the hell-” Mom muttered to herself. Then her eyes narrowed on her daughter. “This isn’t a date or any nonsense, is it? You introducing me to a fiancé or something?”

Nile barked a laugh at the very _thought_. “No. _No_. No way. Uh, they’re actually like. Together. These two guys.”

Mom _oh’d_ her understanding. Then she glanced down at her sweatpants and sweater. “Oh, hell, I better get myself looking presentable for company. You think you can handle them for ten minutes?”

“I handle them all day every day,” Nile snorted. “I think I can manage ten minutes.”

She didn’t even bother trying to reassure her mother that Nicky and Joe didn’t care what she looked like or what clothes she wore, because she knew that would go straight one ear and out the other. No _way_ her mom was going to be caught _dead_ hosting company in her raggedy after-work sweatpants. That was _not_ how things were done in the Freeman house.

Hours later and Mom was moaning over Nicky’s cooking and laughing at every one of Joe’s jokes, practically _blushing_ under the force of his smile. It was totally gross, but Nile soaked it all in, watching with her forearms propped on the table as Nicky and Joe made themselves the perfect houseguests and her mom was _totally_ charmed by them.

Unfortunately Nile couldn’t control every bit of the conversation, and as they sat over coffee and dessert, of _course_ her Mom started asking all _sorts_ of questions Nile really wished she wouldn’t.

“What’s your momma think of you doing this risky work? She worry?”

When her mother asked Joe that, Nile just about winced out of her skin. She opened her mouth to make up something, but Joe smiled, shoulders relaxed as he ran his thumbs over his coffee mug.

“My mother’s passed,” Joe said easily. Nile didn’t miss the way Nicky’s eyes went tight, how they stayed trained on Joe. It had to have been like, nine hundred years ago, but Nile supposed you never really got over your mom dying.

Fuck.

Mom was offering some generic condolences to Joe, who was shaking his head but thanking her.

“She didn’t understand it,” Joe continued. “Not the risk, so much…” he paused and met Nicky’s eyes, which hadn’t left his yet. He smiled tightly at him. “We fought about it, the last time we saw each other. It was many years before she passed, but. She was… worried about the morality of our line of work. If I was doing the right thing. And was much as I assured her…” he smiled tightly at Nile’s mom. “I guess you could say she was worried about my immortal soul.”

Nicky made a choked noise and buried his face in his coffee. Nile just opened her eyes wide and did her best not to make a _move_ , lest her mother _sense_ it.

“You sure it was about your work and not…” Mom raised her eyebrows and gestured between him and Nicky. Joe laughed and shook his head, reaching out for Nicky’s hand.

“No, no. Most definitely not. She loved Nicky. Was asking us for grandkids, one of the last times we stayed with her.”

Nile snorted. That couldn’t be true. After all, how were two gay guys supposed to have kids back in medieval times? Not to mention the whole “being okay with her son being gay” _thing_. No way she was cool with that shit back then.

“She taught me how to cook all of Joe’s favorite meals,” Nicky shared. “But she had misgivings about our work, like Joe says.”

“Well it’s not like I wanna _know_ what my baby’s doing out there,” Mom said. She glanced at Nile and nodded. “But I raised her right. I’m sure if she thinks this is good work worth doing, it’s gotta be.”

“My mother was very religious,” Joe agreed. He glanced at Nicky and shrugged. “Both our mothers were.”

“I never told her,” Nicky admitted. He smiled tightly. “She thought I was, ah… what would you call it: a ‘kept man?’”

Nile guffawed, choking on the chocolate pastry she’d just bitten into. Nicky gave her a wicked little smile, like he had done it on purpose. He shrugged.

“We were well-off. I was in school for years, and then one day I came home with Joe. I didn’t think she’d understand what we do. And: I was her youngest-”

“Nico _lino_ ,” Joe cooed, giggling as Nicky blushed and crossed his arms.

“Sì,” he grumbled. “Her little Nicolino. I thought it best not to worry her.”

“Oh, I would whoop Nile’s butt if she said something that like,” Mom chastised. She wagged a finger at Nicky. “ _You_ don’t protect your _momma_ : your _momma_ protects _you_. Nothing can stop a mom from worrying about her babies. Nile could come home and tell me the army made her skin into steel and I’d still worry about rust every time it rained.”

Nile swallowed her pastry with a big gulp of coffee. Geeze, _Mom_. She was making it harder every day not to tell her. Surely it wouldn’t go as badly as it—apparently—went with Joe’s mom? Or how it had gone with Booker’s kids. Nicky apparently never told his mom: but what if she would’ve accepted it? And now he’d never know?

“Did you ever regret it?” Nile asked Nicky. “Not telling your mom?”

Nicky studied her quietly across the table, eyes glimmering with the weight of the question, of what Nile was asking and why. Finally he sighed and glanced at Joe, who smiled tightly back. Of course they knew what each other would say: Nile was sure they’d had this conversation a million times, if they’d really both been together all the way back then, coming to the decision to tell their mothers, or not.

“Not regret. I wonder, at times. It could have gone like Joe’s mother. It could have gone worse—or better. I’ll never know. But that is okay. Mama loved me, and I loved her.” He smiled at Joe. “And she _loved_ Joe. Every day I’d find them in some corner or another, Mama trying to steal Joe away from me.”

“Ew, Nicky!” Nile squealed. Joe laughed.

“She could never, _tesoro_ ,” Joe reassured Nicky. As _if_ that even needed saying. Nile gagged. “Though she did have the most _beautiful_ eyes…”

Yeah, okay, Nile _got it_ : clearly her and Nicky had the _same_ eyes, if the way Joe was leaning forward and staring into Nicky’s eyes was anything other than a giant neon sign of his meaning.

“I regret it,” Joe said, suddenly, breaking free of his reverie. Nile stared at him in shock. “I shouldn’t have told her. She loved me, but she couldn’t love that part of me. I wish, sometimes, that I hadn’t forced her to make that choice.” He shrugged. “But if I hadn’t said anything, I probably would have regretted that, too. No way to know until you do.”

“Joe is the braver of us,” Nicky observed. Joe laughed.

“Oh, now that is the _sweetest_ of lies. Which of us jumped from a plane without a parachute?”

“That wasn’t bravery,” Nicky observed. “The plane was crashing. It was necessity.” He glanced at Nile’s mom. “It was very low to the ground. I only broke a few bones.”

“One time Nicky jumped on a grenade,” Joe pointed out gleefully.

“It was a dud,” he told Nile’s mom. Then he glanced at Nile and shook his head slightly. Nile’s eyes went wide. “And wasn’t that just a day after you ran through a minefield?”

“You ran after me.”

“Exactly. Much safer: I knew if I stepped wherever you had I wouldn’t get blown up.”

“Oh Lord, you boys are trying to give this old woman a heart attack,” Mom complained, fanning herself. “And I _don’t_ just mean from that cooking, though that might do the trick, too.” She stood and excused herself. Joe immediately jumped up and started collecting the dishes before she could come back and start trying to clean up herself. Nile grinned: no wonder Nicky’s mom kept trying to steal him away. He was the perfect mama’s boy.

To Nile’s surprise, Nicky reached under the table and pulled up a bottle of some kind of alcohol. He tilted it at Nile with a grin. “Limoncello?”

“Uh, yes please.”

“We’ll sit outside so Joe can join us. Joe! Drinks!”

“Be out in a sec!”

Even as she grabbed two glasses and followed him, Nile tilted her head. “Why do we have to sit outside so Joe can drink with us?”

“Joe doesn’t drink,” Nicky explained.

“It’s _haram_!” Joe shouted over the sound of the kitchen faucet.

“Wait, that still doesn’t explain why we have to go outside.”

“So Joe can smoke,” Nicky explained, like it was _obvious_. He quirked an eyebrow at Nile, over his shoulder. “It wouldn’t be fair otherwise.”

…Sure??

When Joe joined them a few minutes later he took the time to pack a pipe. Nile laughed.

Joe frowned at her. “What?”

“Just: a pipe. You look like an old man.”

“Well he _is_ the oldest man on earth…” Nicky mumbled into his drink.

“Three years!” Joe moaned. “I’m only _three years_ older than you!”

“Perverted old man,” Nicky sighed mournfully.

“Daddy issues,” Joe rejoined.

Nicky giggled and they both leaned in to kiss each other at the same time. Nile made gagging noises until they stopped, because seriously: it was like watching her brother kiss, or something. Joe leaned back with one warm behind his head in smug satisfaction as he puffed on his pipe.

“Wait a minute…” Nile sniffed the air. “That smells like _pot_.”

“It’s hashish,” Joe corrected her primly.

“Joe is, ah, _come se dici_ … a ‘stoner,’” Nicky announced with glee.

“ _No_ ,” Nile gasped.

“It is an _ancient_ and _respected_ herbal remedy,” Joe sniffed.

“Remedy for _what_?” Nile laughed. “Being a _square_?!”

“You know, the hippies didn’t _invent_ hash!” Joe whined.

“We know,” Nicky reassured him. He leaned over to Nile. “And so does _every_ hippy we encountered from nineteen-sixty to nineteen-eighty.”

“You’re lucky Illinois legalized pot or my momma would be whooping your ass,” Nile pointed out. Joe looked vaguely worried at the threat, which was adorable, because Nile had seen him pop a guy’s eye out with his thumb. The guy’s eye! Right out of his head!

“To your mother,” Nicky said, raising his glass. Nile grinned and clinked glasses with him, and Joe goofily tapped his pipe against the side of their glasses in turn, to join in with the toast. Nicky drained his glass in one swallow, and Nile didn’t miss the way Joe’s eyes were fixed on his Adam’s apple as it bobbed. Ugh, _boys_. Nile sipped more sedately at her own glass. That shit was _strong_.

Nile thumbed at the rim of her glass as Nicky refilled his own and Joe puffed quietly on his (pot) pipe. Momma was probably shuffling around, looking for things to tidy before they came back inside. Joe and Nicky had told them they a hotel room booked, but Mom had made up the guest room all the same while Nicky was cooking dinner, just in case. Probably was checking to make sure the little travel toothpaste and soaps were all out. Nile swallowed thickly and brought her glass up to her lips.

Joe and Nicky glanced at each other, doing that annoying silent communication thing they did. Nile was getting used to it, though. It was even comforting, in its own way. Reminded her of her mom and dad, before he died. Or how her and her brother got afterwards, when they only had each other.

“You don’t have to decide today,” Joe finally said. Nile knew he was trying to be reassuring, but it just served to remind her of that clock ticking in her head. Ten years, _maybe_ fifteen: that was all she was gonna get, before she had to let Copley kill her and send her momma one of those men in uniform with a folded-up flag… or take the leap of faith and pray Copley didn’t have to do something even _more_ creative to keep her secret.

“I know. I’m not trying to.”

“What Joe and I did…” Nicky started, then stopped. After a moment he tried again: “It was a different world. A thousand years.”

“Yeah, but moms are always the same, aren’t they?” Nile asked, smile a little wobbly. She looked at Joe. “You: you thought your mom was going to be happy, didn’t you? That you couldn’t get hurt, or die.”

“It’s a blessing,” Joe replied. He sighed and wiped his hand over his beard. “I thought she would see it as such. She… did not.”

“And you didn’t think she could deal,” she asked Nicky.

“My mother could ‘deal’ with anything,” Nicky fired back, smirk curling the edges of his lips. “But she shouldn’t have to. This is our burden to bear.” He tapped Joe on the head when Joe immediately opened his mouth to protest. “ _And_ our blessing.”

“I still supported my family,” Joe mused. “Just little things. Jewels and coin, rare silks and dyes. Whatever we came across that I could get delivered safely to them. I wanted to take care of them, but I knew they would only let me if it was a token, and if they could pretend they didn’t know who was sending it. I never sent a letter, or signed a note.” Yusuf smiled tightly. “My mother and father died well.” His expression fell. “My sister died in childbirth. My nephew lived well, married, had children.”

“My mother lived into her eighties,” Nicky said softly. “I know, because we would pass by every few years—just close enough to get news, not close enough to be recognized by anyone I knew. I could never tell her why we could not come home. She might have thought I hated her. That I did not love her. She might have died thinking that. I do not know. But that is what was necessary, to not tell her.”

“It’s just pain every way you look,” Nile observed with growing horror. “Like, no matter what, it’s gonna hurt.”

Nicky and Joe exchanged a look, and Nile _really_ wished they wouldn’t, because she felt so damn _young_ when they did it like that. Like they had all the damn answers and were deciding whether or not little Nile was grown up enough to hear them.

But then when Nicky spoke, it wasn’t condescending, but kind. “Do not look at what will hurt. That is no way to make a decision: avoiding the hurts. Look instead to what joys may be. If you tell your mother about your gift, you may have a long life with her until she passes. If you choose not to, you can have another ten or so years with her, and you can give her a hero’s death for her daughter, one she could be proud of. There is grace to be found everywhere, when you stop looking only at what pain may come.”

Nile wiped away tears, no way to be subtle about it. She took too-big a gulp of her limoncello and ended up coughing before she could speak again. When she could, she wagged a finger at Nicky and Joe.

“You’re not having sex in my momma’s house. Thousand years or not, she’ll still whoop your butts for disrespecting her like that.”

Joe and Nicky fell into each other giggling at that, Nicky’s face flushed from alcohol, Joe’s eyes pink from his pot.

“We’re going to stay at the hotel,” Joe reassured her.

“Tell your mother we appreciate her hospitality,” Nicky said.

“…but that we’d rather spend the night making love,” Joe added.

And Nile rolled her eyes because of _course_ Joe called it “making love” and not “boning down” or “fucking” or just “having sex,” like a _normal_ human (and the _night_? Like the _whole_ night?! Come on, guys, seriously?!).

“I am _not_ telling my momma that,” Nile replied. “I’ll tell her I’m an immortal super soldier in an army of five before I tell her my coworkers can’t go a night without getting their freak on.” Honestly: _that_ would get Nile banished from her mom’s damn house _way_ before the immortality thing would.

Joe and Nicky cheersed with their glass and pipe to that, and they continued talking for an hour or more. Soon, Nile’s mom joined them on the back patio with some blankets and hot cocoa for all. As her mom settled in next to her, Nile rested her head on her shoulder and closed her eyes. She didn’t have to decide tonight. She had years yet with her mother, and she was going to make the most of them. No matter what she decided in the end. “The joys there may be,” or whatever Nicky had called it. Until then, she had this: she had her mom and the joy of time well spent with her.


End file.
